Camelot
by ShareBearTheDeathBear
Summary: He wasn't the benevolently chivalrous knight in shining armor. She wasn't the fair maiden who fainted at the sight of blood. – Molly learns that the bedtime stories of yore aren't meant for thirty-something pathologists. Sherlolly. Part VIII – Hospitals aren't the most romantic places in the world.
1. Chapter 1

**SUMMARY: **He wasn't the benevolently chivalrous knight in shining armor. She wasn't the fair maiden who fainted at the sight of blood. – Molly learns that the bedtime stories of yore aren't meant for thirty-something pathologists. Sherlolly.

**AUTHOR'S NOTES: **My very first venture into the Sherlock fandom and I'm extremely nervous and excited and anxious. I won't pretend to be an expert on the idiosyncrasies and idioms of our neighbor – sorry, _neighbour_ – across the pond so if you find a particularly infuriatingly incorrect use of language, feel free to PM me.

**Disclaimer: **Don't own and never will.

* * *

**CAMELOT**

_His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;_

_On burnish'd hooves his war-house trode;_

_From underneath his helmet flow'd_

_His coal-black curls as he rode,_

_As he rode down to Camelot._

– _Lord Alfred Tennyson, _"The Lady of Shalott"

* * *

Molly Hooper is no stranger to death.

It clings to the edges of her knickers and, if she was fully truthful, it had probably latched onto her soul from the very moment of birth.

She can still imagine the moment now – her newly born cries barely thwarting the stifling silence of death – the moment when she entered the world and her mother exited. Her mother, the bright-eyed woman of the city (the perfect complement to her father – the dusky-skinned country bumpkin with a heart of _pure_ gold) fading into the off-white cotton sheets on her hospital bed just moments after holding her first and only child. Her cries slowly quieting once she noticed the overwhelming lack of noise before she was quickly rushed away – pried from the arms of her dead mother – into an incubator for further monitoring and study. Her father, still towering over the petite corpse, clutched a lifeless wrist in his giant hands with unspoken tears and wishes.

Her father often said she was lucky – always told her she was lucky – to be alive. He said it was a _bloody_ miracle seeing as how premature and tiny she had been. Her birth becomes the source of all luck – and all despair. She is small, tiny, and paltry because of her early birth. She is soft-spoken, horridly shy and horridly awkward because of her early birth. It becomes a psychological scapegoat that takes up shop right above her heart, carving out a hole that grows bigger and bigger each day.

But despite the empty weight above her heart, Molly learns to love, to laugh, to smile as well as to weep. Her father adored her – showering her with enough affection to supplement the lack of a mother – and she adored him. And she was happy with their modest life – the life of a butcher and his daughter filled with books and cats and dining catastrophes. Their life together was simple and quiet.

She endures the cruel outside world as best as she can – filled with snobby teenaged witches (who later become aging housewives with saggy skin who are just as spiteful and bitter) and pig-headed jocks (who _still_ won't give her a moment's glance) – even when Molly would love nothing more than to curl up in her comforter and snuggle with her wonderfully indifferent cat Toby and read terribly trashy romance novels.

But sometimes, when the world is clashing much too loudly outside her door – the annoying thumps and noises of the city drive her absolutely _mad_ – she would find herself reciting the poems her father used to tell her before bedtime. She is quite the fan of Tennyson (and Keats and Byron and . . .) – she remembers when she listened to her father in an enchanted awe as he retold the stories of King Arthur and Sir Lancelot and Lady Guinevere through the words of Lord Tennyson.

She spent many hours wishing herself away to the kingdom of Camelot as she watched chivalrous knights fight for the hand of their beloved. Molly had always been a sappy romantic – even as a little girl.

But no matter how _old_ she gets – or how _lonely_ – she would find herself thumbing through her father's collection of poems (dog-eared and yellowing pages) as the familiar words slip off her tongue leaving to battle against the suffocating noises of the outside and slowly the loneliness is forced back into its cage (tied and gagged) but only temporarily.

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.

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Molly always watches others from a far – whether it was through a window or doorway or even the corner of her eye – but even though she has tried to stop, it is a filthy habit she is much too eager to indulge. Molly always reasons that this distance protects her – it protects her from the outside world filled with loud noises (_so loud that they drown her_) but she is growing tired. She no longer wishes to look at life through a glass, a filter, a screen. She wants to _live_.

Sometimes – late at night, when there is still too much noise and not enough silence – Molly wonders if it is even _possible_ for her to live since she has watched life run away from her the moment she was born.

Molly doesn't like to dwell on it.

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.

.

The closest Molly has ever felt alive is whenever _he_ comes into the morgue. _He_, in this case, being the wonderfully brilliant and passionate and sharp-tongued Sherlock Holmes – the apple of her eye, the object of her affections and the current source of her sexual frustrations and fantasies.

The passion he shows for his cases emanates from him in waves creating electrical sparks within Molly's own veins leaving her feeling flushed but _alive_. Her buzz, of course, is quickly and ruthlessly killed by said man the soonest moment he opens his mouth (or doesn't open – depending on the day, the time and the case).

It's tiring, Molly knows, to be strapped to a roller coaster of feelings that never stops – she never knows whether she is traveling up or down, only that the highs are _amazing_ and the lows are _unbearable_.

But even this feeling is familiar to Molly to an extent – unrequited love is another filthy habit she can't quit. Sherlock isn't the first man to make her feel this way but Molly is unsure whether there _can_ be another man after Sherlock – he was a hard act to follow, so to speak.

At this point, Molly feels almost ready to adopt five more cats and live out her days as a spinster pining over a man who would never give her a second glance even if she strips naked and straddles his lap.

But then he goes and _does_ things that make the feelings come back – making Molly swoon and falling for him all over again – and it frustrates her to no end. Molly is eternally patient – a trait that she's learned from babysitting her many younger cousins – and she foolishly believes with time her feelings will fade and she will move on from this stupid crush and get on with her grown up adult life.

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She snaps one day – it's only natural, _of course_ – it had been a rather long week (the bloody _interns_ who couldn't do their jobs properly; she had overheard the snooty receptionists gossiping about her; she had been invited to her ex-boyfriend's wedding; Sherlock had complimented her – in a backhanded way, of course – into working overtime despite her lack of sleep _et cetera_) and Molly has been growing increasingly tired since the day her father was buried.

It's over something stupid and trivial and puerile – Sherlock complains about his coffee (too sugary, he says – and why on _Earth_ did she add creamer? Didn't Molly _know_ that he only likes his coffee –), and her reply is seething anger, biting bitterness and touch of unadulterated disdain.

She is overwhelmed by the urge to rip his head off as tears collect in her eyes – _why did she keep insisting on this self-inflicted torture?_ – and, in a moment of sheer defiance and pure un-Molly-ness, dumps _his_ scalding cup of coffee (black with two sugars) onto his trousers before sprinting away to safety and silence of her apartment not daring to look back.

She bolts the door shut – takes out the battery from her mobile with a shaky hand – and declares herself dead to the world.

She crawls into her comforter, Toby curled at her feet, and stares at the shadows on the wall.

Molly is half-sick of the shadows.

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.

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She takes the next day off and everyone at St. Bart's is understanding – maybe it's because they can see her breaking silently and quietly rotting away at the morgue – and she spends the day watching trashy shows and absentmindedly petting Toby. She is dressed in clothes that really ought to be in the bin but she can't bear to toss out – they have too much sentiment now, it would feel as though she was throwing away a part of herself.

Her mind is blissfully numb and her focus is elsewhere. Molly may not have been alive but she feels content – a feeling that she hadn't felt in _years_.

She returns the day after as bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as the very first day she had walked into the morgue. Something inside of her has snapped permanently and Molly doesn't bother to glue the shards back together – it isn't worth the time or the effort or the pain.

And she's quite alright with the fact that she doesn't see _him_ again for nearly three weeks.

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.

.

The next time he barges into the morgue with his coat billowing behind him like a cape, Molly is humming a pop song and doesn't even bother to give him a moment's glance. There is a slight pause in his step – as though he was expecting something different – and this paints a bitter smile onto Molly's face. His behavior doesn't evade John's eyes either and as Sherlock frantically wanders around the room trying to avoid her while trying to not make it blatantly obvious.

Sherlock whips out his mobile and taps at it furiously as though it might snap in his capable hands. The familiar chime of John's mobile is heard over Molly's soft humming and he is still as he reads the message.

"Oh sod off, Sherlock! Ask her yourself, she's right there for god's sake." He indignantly replies before taking a seat next to Molly.

Sherlock conveniently becomes deaf as he settles down behind a microscope and begins analyzing a skin sample.

"Is everything alright?" John asks in a hushed whisper – it's silly really, since Sherlock is seated a few meters away and he can hear them – his face is drawn into concern and slight confusion.

Molly smiles, "Of course. I'm actually going on a date after work – his name is Matthew; he's a banker."

"Oh." John murmurs.

The silence that follows speaks volumes.

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.

.

Matthew gives her lilies and daffodils when he arrives at her apartment.

Molly is sure that Matthew doesn't know the significance of a bouquet of lilies and daffodils, he merely says that they remind him of her – when they met at the coffee shop – saying that they're bright and sunny and cheerful and pretty just like she is.

Molly gives him a genuine smile; she _wants_ this to work. She _wants_ to like Matthew. She _wants_ to live and stop looking at life from a glass window.

She wants to be able to feel alive without _him_.

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.

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Molly isn't expecting the knock on her door at three in the morning – then again, one doesn't quite expect these things (death, love, _life_). He stands in front of her door, his coat still like a cape and his dark curls reflect the dim light coming from her dwelling. His wonderful blue eyes are sharp and piercing like they've always been – there's a slight flush on his cheeks but it's because it's cold out _not_ because he's standing on the other side of her doorway at this ungodly hour.

There's another moment's pause – as though Sherlock expects her to break first and Molly laughs silently since she had been broken since before they had even met.

"I want to know why you've been avoiding me." A slight pause follows before he shortly adds, "Please."

Molly wonders how long this has been bothering him or whether he's just confronting this because he's bored and he needs the lab at St. Bart's for research and he needs to be in her good graces. Molly knew that before she would have easily faltered – she _never_ would have lasted this long – and buckled under his intense gaze. But Molly has come to realize that she can only stand to gain from her newfound aloofness, by keeping Sherlock at an arm's distance she has become the source of _his_ frustration.

She contemplates slamming the door in his face and burying herself in her sheets so she can salvage the rest of her sleep.

"I didn't hear an apology in that sentence, Mr. Holmes," Molly calmly states (she feels satisfaction when she notices his obvious dislike at the use of his surname), "So if you wouldn't mind . . ."

She begins to shut the door slowly.

"Wait!" He bellows as he shoves his limbs out, preventing her from closely the door properly.

"I . . ." He pauses again, unsure what to say – it's obvious that he isn't sure why she doesn't just forgive him already so that he can move on to other things. But still, a small bit of Molly hopes that he will finally realize how much he's hurt her.

"I apologize for any of my actions that might have angered you." His apology is quick and short and precise.

Molly sighs. She doesn't understand why she even thought he would have been able to understand after all, Sherlock is Sherlock.

"I'm not angry Sherlock," Her voice is soft, "I'm tired." _Of waiting for you return my feelings. Of waiting for your every beck and call. Of being as useful to you as a pet. Of loving you._

She shuts the door quietly, leaving a confused consulting detective outside.

The hot tears trickle down her face and she doesn't bother to wipe them away.

.

.

.

She goes on another date with Matthew.

He is kind and nice and sincere and _likes her back_.

Molly _still_ wants this to work but she knows it's just a matter of time.

It's always just a matter of time.

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.

.

She is working the graveyard shift at the morgue – it's her _favorite_ shift actually because the entire hospital is usually filled with sweet silence – and she's humming quietly to herself as she dutifully fills out paperwork. She doesn't even notice that he's there until she notices the lily he places onto her desk as he stands silently waiting for her to look up.

"Mr. Holmes," she notices the slight twitch from him – he still isn't used to her calling him that, "Are you familiar with the works of Lord Tennyson?" She picks up the flower, rubbing the soft petals between her fingers.

He says nothing, studying her face for cues – trying to decipher her like one of his cases. His fingers reach out as he gently strokes her face since he is not sure what to do – how to get her to forgive him. It's a small gesture but Molly can feel her heart pounding in her chest wanting to burst from the sheer _life_ that she feels.

It's intoxicating – the feeling of being alive – so much so that Molly takes a chance, a risk, and a gamble. She leans forward, quickly and clumsily, pressing her lips against his – the life bursting out of her chest in loud audible thumps as it shatters the silence of the morgue.

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Common sense be _damned_, practicality be _damned_, unrequited love be _damned_, all Molly feels is the _life_ that comes from him and she drinks it greedily.

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_But Lancelot mused a little space;_

_He said, "She has a lovely face;_

_God in his mercy lend her grace,_

_The Lady of Shalott."_


	2. Chapter 2

**SUMMARY: **He wasn't the benevolently chivalrous knight in shining armor. She wasn't the fair maiden who fainted at the sight of blood. – Molly learns that the bedtime stories of yore aren't meant for thirty-something pathologists. Sherlolly. Part II: The stories said nothing of a meddling and nosy and overbearing brother. (Now a collection of one-shots!)

**AUTHOR'S NOTES: **Back by popular demand! I was surprised and astounded by the number of people who enjoyed the last part and I'm happy to announce that this will be an ongoing one-shot collection that will draw inspiration from Tennyson's interpretation of Lancelot and Elaine of Astolat. The one-shots will be loosely connected and updates will be slow.

* * *

**CAMELOT**

_His mood was often like a fiend, and rose  
And drove him into wastes and solitudes  
For agony, who was yet a living soul.  
Marred as he was, he seemed the goodliest man  
That ever among ladies ate in hall,  
And noblest, when she lifted up her eyes.  
–Lord Alfred Tennyson, _"Lancelot and Elaine"

* * *

Molly Hooper isn't blind.

She can see him very clearly – even when he doesn't want her to – she can see his heart. Regardless of what others say – Anderson, Sergeant Donovan, the _insufferable_ blond receptionist – Molly knows that Sherlock Holmes does _indeed_ possess a heart. He just doesn't wear it on his sleeve like everyone else.

His is just so much harder to see – so faint that her eyes strain and she questions whether they _are_ right and that he really _is_ heartless – but she never gives up hope. Even when he ruthlessly and remorselessly cuts through her with his words as he continues to claim to be a highly-functioning sociopath trapped in a touchy-feely world filled to the lid with nitwits.

She knows why he pushes people away – well, _most_ people – it was for the same reason she had isolated herself when she was younger. It is dangerous having a heart – one that people could exploit and manipulate to their own gains. Molly had learned this cruel fact the hard way – and she is still learning.

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"Miss Hooper?" An attractive woman asks as Molly walks down the street to her flat. Molly turns around, her groceries in hand and her clothes rumpled beyond repair, and she sees a sharply-dressed woman clicking away at her mobile phone.

"My employer wishes to see you." Molly blinks but follows the woman into the small coffee shop that she frequents when she's in a hurry in the morning. She finds herself seated across an older man holding an umbrella – he is slightly plump and his hair is thinning – and for a moment, Molly thinks that she is meeting someone very, very, _very_ important and she feels horridly under-dressed. Two cups of tea and an array of biscuits are given to them and for a while no words are exchanged.

"W-what is this about?" Molly blurts out rather impatiently – she has to get back to Toby since he gets rather frisky when he doesn't receive his food on time – and as an afterthought adds, "I mean . . . . Who are you, exactly?"

"I am Mycroft Holmes, Miss Hooper." He sips his tea rather aristocratically and Molly notices that he pointedly avoids the biscuits.

Molly blinks rapidly, her pulse quickening before she stumbles on the words, "You're _Sherlock's _brother?"

"Yes, Miss Hooper." Molly believes that he might have rolled his eyes at her but he seemed too posh for that.

"Um, what is this about? Is _he_ in some sort of trouble? Am _I_ in some sort of trouble?" Molly begins to ramble as her thoughts fall out of her mouth.

"Normally, Miss Hooper, I don't bother with these types of things. As a man of the government, my time is very precious, you see. However, in cases that concern my brother, I have found that nothing quite beats a _personal_ touch."

"Um." Molly mutters, wishing he would just get to the point but is unable to voice her opinion since she doesn't believe him when he merely states he is 'of the government' – he seems much too important to be a lowly pencil-pusher of the bureaucracy.

"I wish to inquire whether you are sleeping with my brother." His question causes Molly to choke on her tea, her hacking fills the quiet café as Mycroft looks on with silent emotion.

"Beg your pardon?" Molly asks as she finally gets her breathing under control.

"I'm sure that you understand – it is very difficult to get a straight answer from my brother. The man just refuses to answer any of my questions. So I believe that it would be best to receive the information straight from the horse's mouth, if you will."

"What? No. I mean – why would you think we're sleeping together?" Her words are crushed together as Molly's confusion continues to cloud her mind.

"You have kissed, is that not correct?" He asks as he continued to sip his tea.

"No, I mean yes we have kissed _technically_ but I ran away before – Wait a moment, how do you know that?" Her answers come in short bursts as she is unsure how to frame her sentences – the words are jumbled and scrambled as her mind goes a kilometer a minute trying to figure out how to answer the questions without sounding like a love-deranged stalker.

"That is irrelevant Miss Hooper." He skillfully dodges the question.

Molly is at a loss of words – Sherlock's brother had come to confront her about a nonexistent relationship. Her life seemed to have hit a new low as it would appear.

Suddenly, Molly feels herself snap as her body posture becomes rigid, "I fail to see how any of this is your concern, Mr. Holmes. This is between your brother and me, not anyone else." Her fists are clenched as her mouth is drawn into a line.

"I was merely being courteous, Miss Hooper. In addition to inquiring about the relationship between my brother and yourself, I came to warn you."

"Warn me?" Molly echoes as her disbelief continues to grow.

"My brother doesn't love, Miss Hooper. I believe that it would be in your best interests if you –" Mycroft begins.

"You're just like the rest of the lot, aren't you?" Molly interrupts him, "Let me guess, you wish to tell me to give up. To stop loving him. Probably tell me that I'm better off or that I don't have chance in high hell, aren't you? You must think I'm pathetic, don't you? That I love a man that probably won't ever love me back. Do you think it's easy, Mr. Holmes? Do you think it's easy to stop loving someone? Like it's just some switch that you can turn on and off? Don't you think I've tried? Heaven knows how many times I've wished it were just that simple."

She doesn't let him answer as she continues on.

"I'm not bitter, Mr. Holmes. I know exactly how it is – I know exactly what other people think. I do not want your pity or your advice, with all due respect. I know exactly who Sherlock is – and I know exactly why I love him. So don't go off telling me that I deserve _better_ when he is the best there is." She is about to leave, she gathers her things and stands up.

"Be gentle with him, Miss Hooper." His voice rasps.

Molly pauses.

"What do you mean?" Her voice is soft, and her back is to him but she listens to Mycroft's soft breathing.

"My brother doesn't love, Miss Hooper, but that doesn't mean that he doesn't feel – no matter how much he wishes it were so."

Molly laughs mirthlessly, "But in order to hurt him, Mr. Holmes, wouldn't he have to let me in?"

"No wall is impenetrable, Miss Hooper, a fact that I've learned quite well over the years." Molly turns and looks at him, her expression is thoughtful but silent.

"Perhaps I was a bit too _abrasive_ earlier but I care for my brother deeply, Miss Hooper. He is family, after all. And Sherlock is . . . special." Mycroft sighs before he finally indulges in a biscuit.

.

.

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"_Do you see him as a hero, Miss Hooper?"_

"_I see him as a man, Mr. Holmes."_

_He smiles quietly – it is a very slight smile, almost bitter and almost sweet. And she finds herself smiling as well because he understands now – he understand the how and the who but it is unlikely that he will ever fully understand the why._

_He will never understand why she loves him._

_But that's okay._

_No one really understands._

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Mycroft tells her that his brother is broken – he had never been fully intact even as a child. Perhaps it was because of the circumstances, perhaps it was their family, perhaps it was merely fate – regardless, Sherlock has grown up to be cynical and learned that social isolation took all precedence. Molly can detect some guilt in Mycroft's voice – as though he believes himself to be reason.

Molly knows that Sherlock is flawed – she _isn't_ blinded by hero-worship unlike some believe – and it was never about his appearance, though Molly does concede that Sherlock is handsome enough to fantasize about _daily_.

Molly thinks that the reason why she likes him so much is because she can see a bit of herself in his eyes.

She can see that lonely girl that sat in the corner and read textbooks for fun as the others gossiped and played and chatted.

Molly can see that he is lonely.

He just believes that he is better off alone. Even when he is with John, he can be detached and distant – as though _he_ is watching _them_ through a glass.

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Things are quiet as they should be – Lord knows the surprise that would accompany a _noisy_ morgue – and she keeps herself busy and tries not to look at the clock too much because she knows glancing every five minutes isn't going to make time go faster.

When she leaves to the hospital cafeteria, she meets John. Apparently he knew someone working there and had come over to have a chat. They drink their coffee together and chat about simple things: the weather, the weather and the weather.

Molly knows that John is being polite – he doesn't really have to do this, he doesn't have to check up on her like this. He probably doesn't know what had happened between Sherlock and herself and Molly doesn't really intend on telling him but she can see the curiosity that is in his eyes.

"He's been irritable." He finally says, as if it was the sole reason why he had asked to have coffee together in the first place.

"Oh?" Molly counters as she sips her sweet, sweet coffee.

"Something about coffee. He's also been buying a lot of flowers – but I suspect that it's for an experiment." He continues.

"How have the cases been going?" She asks him only out of courtesy – she reads the blog regularly.

"They've – they've been fine." He looks as though he wants to ask her something but can't form the words to say it.

"Is there something you want to ask me, John?" Molly asks meekly.

"Yes!" He sounds too relieved and quickly adds, "I mean if it's not too invasive."

"It's fine." Molly replies.

"What exactly happened? He just showed up in the middle of the night from the morgue and began playing the violin as if he was going to die – and he's been moody ever since. He's practically desperate for cases even when they're less than a 6."

"I – I told him how I felt." Her words are soft and almost drown in the outside noise.

"You actually told him?" John's eyebrows are raised and Molly tries not to stew in the unwanted feelings – _did everyone think of her as mousy and spineless?_ – as she clutches her coffee.

"More or less." The memory of the kiss runs through her vision and her fists clench.

"How did he respond?" John leans over and whispers.

"I didn't let him." She glances away from John's understanding face.

John nods, "You've got to understand, Molly; it's _Sherlock_."

"I know." Molly sighs.

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Molly receives an invitation for tea from Mycroft Holmes.

She accepts, begrudgingly, because she although she may not know Mycroft – she has seen what a Holmes does when he doesn't get his way.

It's a little shop not too far away from her flat and she goes straight after work not bothering to dress up. It's not like she has anyone the impress – it's just Mycroft, after all.

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.

She supposes, on one hand, that she should have seen this coming. She should have known that Mycroft would never quite leave her alone. Because as soon as she's seated across from Mycroft, the shop door opens again and in come Sherlock and John.

She scowls at Mycroft's little smile.

"Molly, why are you meeting Mycroft?" John asks, clearly confused.

"He invited me for tea." She nearly whispers as she quickly drowns her teacup in sugar trying to appear as calm as possible.

"Mycroft, where is it?" Sherlock asks, completely ignoring Molly.

Mycroft gives Molly a glance before turning his attention back to his brother.

"Come now, Sherlock, why don't you join us for tea?" Sherlock's eyes widen.

"I'm on a case." Is Sherlock's quick answer as he turns to leave, "We're leaving, John."

John gives the pair a final look of disbelief before hurrying behind Sherlock.

"Was that really necessary?" Molly asks through bared teeth.

"On the contrary, Miss Hooper, I found his reaction _highly_ educational." Mycroft says with his silent smile.

"Why did you call me here?" Molly asks tiredly – she's tired of the two brothers and the stress that often accompanies them.

"I'm here to give you my blessing."

"E-excuse me – ?"

"To be honest, I find you much better than that Adler woman – much less of a headache and you seem more suited for the domestic life anyway. Besides, someone has to continue on the Holmes line and can I assure you that I am out for the count. I expect nephews and nieces within the decade, Miss Hooper. Good day." He gets up to leave, his umbrella in hand, while Molly is still sitting in her plush chair rather dumbfounded.

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_Seamed with an ancient sword-cut on the cheek,  
And bruised and bronzed, she lifted up her eyes  
And loved him, with that love which was her doom._


	3. Chapter 3

**SUMMARY: **He wasn't the benevolently chivalrous knight in shining armor. She wasn't the fair maiden who fainted at the sight of blood. – Molly learns that the bedtime stories of yore aren't meant for thirty-something pathologists. Sherlolly. Part III: Princesses don't have lab coats and Princes don't throw temper tantrums.

**AUTHOR'S NOTES: **I'm trying really, really, _really_ hard to keep Sherlock in character but it's difficult when all I want him to do is declare his undying love for Molly as they ride off into the sunset on his white stallion (not exactly the best thoughts to have when writing angst). I would appreciate any criticism or thoughts.

* * *

**CAMELOT**

"_Ah, sister," answered Lancelot, "what is this?"_

_And innocently extending her white arms,_

"_Your love," she said, "your love – to be your wife."_

_And Lancelot answered,_

"_Had I chosen to wed,_

_I had been wedded earlier, sweet Elaine:_

_But now there never will be a wife of mine."_

–_Lord Alfred Tennyson, _"Lancelot and Elaine"

* * *

He hates her – well, maybe hate was too strong of a word (Sherlock never felt strongly about _these _types of things) – at least, that is what Molly discerns after the fourth consecutive week of his absence from the lab. She finds this rather odd – the longest Sherlock has ever been away from the lab is two weeks – even though Mike tries to comfort her by saying that Sherlock is odd by _nature_. It is none of her fault. And that she shouldn't look into his actions too much, smarter people than her have tried to find a method to his madness and failed.

Molly only wishes that were true.

This wouldn't be the first time that Molly had driven a man away. She had never been quite so impulsive like she had been with Sherlock (_where_ she found the gall to kiss him, _she_ would never know) but she had been called terrible, _terrible_ things while she was growing.

Stalker.

Leech.

Insect.

Pest.

Unwanted.

She always had the terrible habit of loving things that would never love her back.

She had thought that she had come to terms with it – _before_ meeting Sherlock, of course – her life had been looking up, she hadn't fallen in love since she had arrived in the hospital. Of course she had cast a few glances whenever that cute surgeon passed her in the cafeteria – but it was never anything too serious. Molly was fine with admiring from a far – content with living vicariously through her mates as they complained about their boyfriends (later, _husbands_) saying that she should be glad that she was single.

Molly doesn't think that they realize how bad it is – to be lonely not by your own choice. They don't realize how horrible it is to glance into the mirror each morning and realizing that your clock is tick-tick-ticking away and there's nothing you can do about it.

She's rather accustomed to the thought of living alone as a spinster but something within her keeps fighting – she has _barely_ hit her thirties, there is still a chance (to fall in love, to marry, to have children, to _not_ be alone) and she shouldn't give up hope too soon.

She just needs to get over Sherlock Holmes first.

Molly laughs mirthlessly as she cuts into the corpse.

Easier said than done, of course.

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.

She wants to be unsurprised when Sherlock arrives in the lab at one-thirty in the morning and starts analyzing samples of topsoil – but she can't help it. She had left the lab very briefly – just to top off her kitty mug with coffee – but when she returned she found him there hunched over his _preferred_ microscope with his coat draped carelessly over a chair.

She is almost afraid to make a sound – as though her breathing would suddenly startle him and switch on his retreat mode – and she carefully returns to her desk and silently does her reports. The silence is suffocating and warm – but Molly takes it as a sign of good will.

Maybe it's just better pretending as though _it_ didn't happen and they can go back to their usual, familiar roles.

Consulting detective and pathologist.

Nothing more and nothing less.

.

.

.

This pattern continues on – he will arrive in the dead of the night (sometimes his clothes are mussed as though he had just taken a tumble) – and they will work silently but diligently. Very, very, _very_ few words are exchanged and when they are the conversation is mostly one-sided. Coffee is made and re-made. They work around each other – but it works for Molly since she feels as though a giant weight has been moved. And the painful squelch that was her heartbeat returns to its usual aching rhythm of unrequited love – the status quo is kept intact.

.

.

.

"John wants to marry her." He says one day (or night, it's hard to tell in the morgue) breaking their unspoken agreement of silence rather effectively.

"He's bought a ring that he keeps in a shoebox underneath his bed – it's not an heirloom rather it's one of those that you can pick from the display – and he's booked dinner reservations at a French restaurant, which is moronic because John cannot discern the difference between French and Spanish never mind _read_ French. Also, he has bought new shoes – not trainers – but they don't fit him properly and they do nothing for his height – "

Molly listens thoughtfully and silently but when it seems as though his monologue has no end, she finally interrupts, "Has he told you yet?"

"No. I don't know why he would ever want to marry her. She has no – " He starts again.

"Maybe it's because he loves her, Sherlock." Her voice is rather plain; there isn't a hint of meekness as she begins to stack her paperwork in its allotted piles.

He is silent after that, as though he doesn't wish to voice his opinions on the subject and Molly is glad since she already _knows_ his opinion.

.

.

.

It occurs to Molly as she's lying awake in her bed that she's become some sort of makeshift replacement for John which probably why Sherlock had returned to the lab in the first place despite the choking awkwardness.

She isn't sure what to do with this revelation.

.

.

.

She meets John the next day; his brightness smile is enough to rival the light of a thousand suns.

And everything clicks for Molly.

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.

.

Sherlock arrives that night sporting bruises on his cheeks and in the worst mood possible. His gloom gathers around him in the morgue as he scowls, peering into the microscope.

"Are you alright?" Molly frowns as he ignores her but she won't be easily deterred because something happened, _damn it_, and knowing Sherlock and his bloody _pride_ – Molly can only assume the worst.

She briskly moves towards the first aid kit and rummages for bandages among other things.

With more strength than Molly thought she possessed, she pulls on his shoulder and forces him to face her. Upon closer inspection, she sees dried blood and numerous cuts – as though he had a quarrel with a razor blade – and his beautifully blue eyes are dull.

Molly makes quick work of the dried blood and tries not to touch him more than necessary – and during this, Sherlock is silent as he watches her with his darkened sapphire eyes. She wants to ask him more than anything – _why, why on Earth did this happen? _– but she doesn't because she knows that he won't answer her. Sherlock never answers the questions that he doesn't want to.

"What is love, Molly?" His voice is soft – childishly so – as he looks at her. Molly muses that if he had looked at her like this only a few months prior her knees would have given out and they would have needed smelling salts to wake her. But now, his gaze does nothing except make that dull ache in her heart beat a tad harder and a tad longer.

Molly is quiet as she places the supplies back into the box, before staring into Sherlock's eyes.

"Don't ask questions that you don't want to know the answer to." She softly replies before swallowing thickly, "How did this happen?"

"Don't ask questions that you don't want to know the answer to, Molly." Sherlock parrots almost in a sing-song version of his voice before looking away. "Thank you," He mutters as an afterthought but doesn't bother to look her in the eyes.

Molly bites her lip in frustration before sighing.

It is only before she has to leave that she actually answers his question. She isn't sure whether he heard her or not – he seemed rather busy with his samples and her voice was inexplicably soft.

.

.

.

"_Loving someone is forgiving them even when they hurt you – no matter how much or how many times."_

.

.

.

John gives Molly an invitation to the wedding and she feels rather flattered but she knows that John is being John – his smile seems even brighter than before, _curious_.

"And how does Sherlock feel about this?" She asks as casually as possible but, since she _is_ Molly, the question sounds horridly tactless.

John looks thoughtful, "Surprisingly calm, actually. He's arranged for us to have the wedding in a church that Mary had her sights on – dunno how, of course. We were told it had been booked solid for nearly two years."

Molly glances at the ring that adorns John's finger proudly. Its silver surface shines even under the fluorescent lighting of the hospital.

"Can't imagine that he's too happy about you moving out, is he?"

"Not a chance." And they laugh merrily both feeling oddly content.

.

.

.

"So how did you first meet Sherlock?" Mary asks her – they've gotten much closer during the months before the wedding since most of Mary's family lives abroad and won't arrive until a week prior to the event – suddenly, one day over tea.

"At St. Bart's. Mike had known him for a while, it seemed; I met him in the lab when he proclaimed I was using his _preferred_ microscope." Molly replies before nibbling on a biscuit.

They giggle like a pair of schoolgirls before Mary sighs rather contentedly.

"You know John means to make him best man." Mary says as she sips her tea; her ring catches reflects the light dangling from overhead.

"Can't imagine Sherlock's too thrilled by the prospect." Molly comments with a snort.

"Oh he hates all of it – but he wouldn't dare ruin it, of course." Mary rolls her eyes.

Molly stares at Mary rather curiously, "Did you blackmail him by chance?"

"Maybe," Mary grins, "I've learned that there are a few things that make our ol' Sherlock as bashful as a schoolboy." And Mary laughs as though she is enjoying a secret joke that few have the privilege of knowing.

.

.

.

Sherlock complains about the wedding during their time in the lab together.

And Molly listens diligently while trying not to chuckle in amusement – he sounds like a three-year-old throwing a tantrum because he isn't getting his way.

All he was missing was the pout.

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.

.

"_Love never asks to be returned, no matter how much it hurts."_


	4. Chapter 4

**SUMMARY: **He wasn't the benevolently chivalrous knight in shining armor. She wasn't the fair maiden who fainted at the sight of blood. – Molly learns that the bedtime stories of yore aren't meant for thirty-something pathologists. Sherlolly. Part IV: Princesses don't get plastered at weddings and they don't hook up with the best man.

**AUTHOR'S NOTES: **Thanks for all the lovely reviews; they fuel my ideas. Looking at the paintings of Elaine of Shalott was rather scary – she almost looks like a medieval Molly, if I do say so myself. End scene is ambiguous for obvious and un-obvious reasons. Please interpret anyway you like.

* * *

**CAMELOT**

_"No, no," she cried, "I care not to be wife,  
But to be with you still, to see your face,  
To serve you, and to follow you through the world."_

–_Lord Alfred Tennyson, _"Lancelot and Elaine"

* * *

It happens rather quietly, rather unexpectedly, and rather obviously one bleak Tuesday. Molly was working the day shift (Mike maintained that it wasn't healthy for _anyone_ to be forced to work the graveyard shift, _especially_ if they insisted), and she was walking through the hallways of St. Bart's when a man calls her name. Her arms are full with books rendering her unable to see but she swivels towards the source of sound, nonetheless.

Suddenly, the burden she carries is much, much, _much_ lighter and she comes face to face with an auburn-haired (thinning and balding) man – the new resident urologist who just recently transferred. She had only glimpsed at him a few days ago when their hands brushed as they reached for the sugar – both shooting awkward but pleasant smiles.

His name is Kyle Humphreys and he offers to help her carry her load back to the morgue – Molly accepts, of course, _what fool would decline?_

They engage in pleasantries – Kyle speaks of his thoughts on St. Bart's and his new flat while Molly politely listens and interjects at the appropriate intervals. The conversation was going extremely well for a woman who is _renowned_ for her lack of tact and Molly finds it rather easy to talk to him.

Kyle is recounting a particularly amusing tale of a previous patient when they step into the morgue and as Molly snorts in laughter – she fails to take notice of Sherlock Holmes and his calculating stare as he watches the two.

"So, um, I was wondering –"

"Listen, Molly –"

They both start at the same time and it's amusing since they both sound like a pair of shy grade-schoolers.

Kyle starts again, "You, first."

"Well, my friend is getting married in a few weeks and I was wondering if –" Molly quietly begins.

"Ah, Molly. Have you brought the fingers?" A cold voice interjects rather harshly as it shakes Molly from her content stupor – Molly almost scowls, for a moment it seemed as though . . .

"And you are?" Kyle asks as he sets down a stack of books. He glances at the taller, lankier (and definitely _smarter_) man with a slight distrustful frown.

"Sherlock Holmes – the consulting detective. Molly, the fingers –" Sherlock is impatient and more standoffish than usual.

Molly sighs as she shoves the rest of the stack of books to one corner of the desk and begins to walk towards the freezer when she is stopped by a tug on her wrist.

"There was something that you wanted to ask me, Molly?" Kyle looks at her rather with obvious expectations and Molly feels as though she is caught between a rock and a hard place since she can _feel_ Sherlock's impatience radiate towards her.

She glances at Sherlock – his steel blue eyes are fixated straight at her – and feels her resolve strengthen within her.

_To hell with unrequited love!_

Molly is tired of going to weddings with nothing to show but the lack of a love life.

"Yes," her voice is marble, "I was wondering if you would accompany me to a wedding two Saturdays from now."

"Of course," Is Kyle's quick answer and Molly feels a rush of emotion escape her. Kyle leaves quickly – _the work of a urologist is never done_ – and the morgue feels unusually cold as though Sherlock's ice-like eyes are following her every move.

.

.

.

_To hell with unrequited love!_

Molly Hooper no longer wanted to be the unloved heroine in her own story.

.

.

.

_("So, who's your date to the wedding?" Mary asks casually – too casually to be normal._

_Molly knows when people do that – try to ask questions as though they could care less when in reality they're hanging on to your every word – and she sighs because she finds it all rather stupid really. If you wanted to know something, why would you pretend that you didn't? It just doesn't make any sense to her._

"_Kyle – he's an urologist, recently transferred." Molly mumbles as she stifles a yawn – it had been a long day._

"_Oh." Mary says abruptly – as though as that was an answer she didn't want to hear._

_Molly raises an eyebrow in question, "Is there a problem?"_

"_Well," Mary glances away from her friend, "I just thought it would be nice you'd go with Sherlock since he's best man and you're the maid of honor and all."_

_Molly chokes on her sip of tea in astonishment, "Are you telling me to go with Sherlock?"_

"_I can't force you to, of course. I just thought it would work since he doesn't have anyone to go with and you know each other –"_

"_It's too late; I've already asked Kyle." Molly says rather quickly._

_Mary sighs, "Shame.")_

.

.

.

Sherlock becomes more distant – he still talks to her, of course. But it feels as though he's talking _at_ her rather than _with_ her – but Molly writes it off as grumpiness. John is to move out in less than a few weeks and she is sure that Sherlock is less than pleased.

She's been seeing less of John these days – Mary had been keeping him busy with the caterer and other things.

Though during one rather particularly bleak and quiet day, Molly gathers up the courage to ask Sherlock a question.

"Is John having a bachelor party?" She tries to sound casual – but not _too_ casual. Her back is towards him so she is unable to see his facial expression.

"Bachelor party?" Sherlock mutters.

"You know – a party to celebrate his last night as a bachelor before the wedding? John's last hurrah as a free man."

Sherlock snorts, "I doubt Mary would allow such debauchery under her watch. She has John on a tighter leash now – won't even let him accompany me on cases unless it's a homicide."

"She's having a bachelorette party." Molly counters as she glances at Sherlock; her lip is upturned in amusement.

"I take it that you're going." He states as he peers into the microscope.

"Of course, I'm the maid of honor." For a moment, Molly thinks that Sherlock's eyes widen a bit further than usual – but she casts it off as a trick of the light.

_Dilated pupils can only mean one thing . . ._

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.

.

The wedding day comes quickly. The men are still at 221B Baker Street with Mrs. Hudson supervising them – Sherlock still cannot be trusted even just hours before the ceremony. But Molly would give anything to switch places with the elderly woman –

"Molly! What if the gown doesn't fit?" Mary's worried shrieks resound in her flat as she waves her hands in frustration (_carefully_, so not to ruin the manicure) – she is a bride on a rampage and woe to all who encounter her.

Molly has been to her fair share of weddings as a bridesmaid – but each time, she always dreaded this moment. Hours before the wedding, a person can have second thoughts – _stupid_, horrid, _idiotic_ second thoughts – and Molly was supposed to be the voice of reason that would make it all better as she (bitterly) watches her friend marries into what seemed to be a life full of love and happiness and sharing a surname.

"What if he leaves me for Sherlock?" Mary shouts hysterically, causing Molly to burst into a fit of giggles.

"Well, it wouldn't be much of a surprise, now would it?" Molly drily asks.

Mary huffs in indignation, "Not helping!"

"Mary, John _loves_ you. As much as he loves Sherlock, I doubt he'd want to marry the bloke." Mary snorts in amusement as she fiddles with her jewelry.

Molly is taken aback by the sudden hug that Mary gives her, as the latter begins to sniffle uncontrollably. "You're such a dear, Molly. The best maid of honor ever!"

Molly sighs and rolls her eyes, _typical_. She returns the hug and pats her friend on the back, trying to console the hormonally impulsive bride.

Molly couldn't help but wonder how Mrs. Hudson was faring.

.

.

.

Molly isn't sure how she ended up with the job of "babysitting" Sherlock an hour before the ceremony but she finds herself following the man around like a lost puppy trying to distract him from not "reading" the guests and causing any sort of unwanted drama.

.

.

_._

_("Please, Molls? It's my day, and you know how Sherlock is and John can't –" Mary says._

_Molly cuts her off, "Fine, but there better be one hell of a bar during the reception."_

_Mary grins, her white teeth sparkle in the light and she almost goes to hug Molly again for the umpteenth time that morning but thankfully doesn't – so as not to smudge her makeup or muss her hair.)_

.

.

.

"Oi, you done yet?" Molly can hear a shout from outside the makeshift dressing room. It's a woman – younger than Molly, light brown hair with equally light brown eyes – Mary's younger cousin.

She bursts into the room, her bridesmaid dress is rumpled and Molly can begin to see the lines of protest on Mary's face, when the woman rummages through her oversized purse to obtain a _flask_. She shoves the flask into Mary's hands and grins wolfishly when she sees Molly's horrified face.

"Morstan tradition, that is." She says smirking.

"It's tradition to get sauced _before_ a wedding?" Molly nearly shouts when Mary takes a gulp of alcohol.

"C'mon Molls, it helps the nerves." Mary nudges her a bit.

Molly sighs, _the things I do as a maid of _bloody_ honor_.

.

.

.

Molly glances around the guests who have started to fill the pews – trying to find Kyle.

"Looking for someone, Molly?" His voice startles her so much that she backs up in her high heels, almost falling back into him. Molly cranes her neck upwards, and sees Sherlock peering down at her.

"Um – yes, have you seen –?"

The organ begins play the dreaded tune and suddenly a bouquet is thrust into Molly's hands and her arm are linked with Sherlock's. They begin the long, slow, _treacherous _stroll down the aisle where they would eventually separate – Sherlock will stand next to John while Molly will go to the opposite side along with Mary's other bridesmaids.

Her heart is so loud that it almost drowns the organ in its _thumps! _and, unfortunately, she is unable to concentrate on her steps (_left, right, left, right –_ ) because Sherlock would not stop deducing every person that catches his eye and begins to whisper his conclusions into Molly's ear.

"That man seated two meters to the left recently lost his job and his –" He starts in a hushed whisper.

But Molly, as the maid of _bloody_ honor, will not stand for it. She very discreetly (_conspicuously_) slams her heel onto Sherlock's foot, effectively silencing the overgrown child with a slight whimper.

"Shut. Up." Molly whispers through a tense smile.

Mary would have her head if she found out that she had allowed Sherlock to state his observations _during_ the ceremony.

They finally split paths, and Molly watches John give Sherlock a curious look before turning to her. Molly can feel herself flush – her heart is still beating thunderously (even though it isn't her _damn_ wedding) – when she realizes that John had seen her step on Sherlock's foot on purpose.

_Bloody_ hell.

.

.

.

The ceremony is sweet to Molly and she holds back tears as she watches her friends exchange meaningful vows – and gives Sherlock the dirtiest look she can muster when she sees him begin to roll his eyes. Every now and then, Molly looks into the audience looking for Kyle – _perhaps he's coming to the reception? Maybe there was an emergency and was called in?_ – her mind is buzzing with possibilities.

After the ceremony, everything is a blur – everyone is rushing to the reception hall either to celebrate, to drink or to escape their significant others (some doing all three in no particular order).

And somehow, Molly ends up sitting next to Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson during the reception dinner.

_Somehow_, indeed.

Molly casts a wry look in the direction of Mary, who is too busy taking pictures to notice.

.

.

.

It occurs to Molly, two hours into the reception that Kyle is not coming.

Now, mind you, Molly is _not_ an alcoholic. Her father certainly didn't raise her that way – and Molly always found substance abuse to be rather frightening (_what if she couldn't stop?)_. But at the prospect of being stuck with Sherlock (her unrequited love? crush? infatuation?) for an unknown number of hours when he was clearly bored enough to begin deducing the other bridesmaids and enduring this while sober – Molly wasn't a saint and she is sure that no one would think any less of her if she turned to the bottle for tonight.

Four glasses of wine and few shots of tequila later – Molly Hooper is a different person.

Her words have not slurred per se – in fact, they are bolder and more confidently uttered. Molly Hooper is no longer hiding behind her comfortably safe shell – she is bold, self-assured and simply un-Molly.

.

.

.

_This _Molly Hooper harmlessly flirts with Lestrade even though his wife is only a few tables away – but it's obvious that _she's_ flirting with some bloke that went to school with Mary and, quite frankly, Molly doesn't give a damn – she dances, she laughs _loudly_ but this is _not _to say that Molly is not fully aware of what she is doing. Despite her small stature, Molly has a surprisingly high tolerance for alcohol – probably from her father who could always enjoy a good pint – so this is not to say that Molly is an oblivious drunk. The drink merely releases her from the chains of her shyness – allowing the woman to finally _say_ what she means.

Because Molly always means what she says – but doesn't necessarily always say what she means.

.

.

.

She finds herself seeking out Sherlock Holmes – _not_ because her inebriated self has delusions of hooking up with London's most exclusive bachelor – because her tipsy self almost pities the man who is currently standing in the corner of the hall watching the rest of the party-goers _alone_. And besides, the alcohol has set in and Molly is _damned_ sure that there are some things that she wants to say to the world's only consulting detective when she _knows_ she won't remember their conversation in the morning.

"Sherlock!" Molly near-stumbles in her sky-high heels that Mary had insisted that she wear – it wasn't the alcohol, _of course not_, Molly is just normally clumsy – as she moves towards the tall man dressed in a fetching, fitted suit.

He looks at her slightly amused, bored and bored.

Suddenly, all of Molly's thoughts are jammed into her throat at once – it's _unsettling_ really – and she begins to choke on her words. She feels another surge of anger – pure spite – run through her inebriated veins but her tongue refuses to cooperate.

She wants to shriek at this man – she wants to tell him how much easier it was when she hadn't met him. How she wishes she could just shove all of her feelings into a drawer and never, ever, ever dare to open them again. How she wishes that she could be like him and pretend to be unfeeling.

But she can't. Not now. Not ever.

Because she loves him _damn it_, and she can't do anything about it.

She wants to cry, she wants to scream, but most of all she wants to _hate_ this man.

But she can't.

Because he's taught her how to live.

.

.

.

Molly doesn't remember much after that – maybe it's a blessing really and Molly has lived long enough to not look a gift horse in the mouth, _thankyouverymuch_.

She wakes up lying in sheets – sheets that _aren't hers_ – in a room that _isn't hers_.

Molly has seen enough rom-com movies to know where this was heading. Molly had known that she was always weak for a man that gave her any sort of attention (_it was a weakness, okay?_) but she _never_ thought that she was the type of woman who would do one-night flings.

But oddly enough, she isn't upset that she's waking up in a foreign place.

She's upset because she knows who's room this is.

She upset because she's become a fool _again _and because she knows that even this won't change her feelings for him.

She can't hate him.

She can't.

Because – how do you hate the one person who gave you purpose?

_How do you hate the one person who showed you what life was?_

_How do you hate the one person who showed you what life could be?_

No.

Molly couldn't hate Sherlock any more than she could stop loving him.

She knows this – even when the tears splatter onto the silk sheets.


	5. Chapter 5

**SUMMARY: **He wasn't the benevolently chivalrous knight in shining armor. She wasn't the fair maiden who fainted at the sight of blood. – Molly learns that the bedtime stories of yore aren't meant for thirty-something pathologists. Sherlolly. Part V – Weddings are supposed to be joyous occasions – not breeding grounds for the lonely.

**AUTHOR'S NOTES: **Subtlety is an art form.

* * *

**CAMELOT**

_And stayed; and cast his eyes on fair Elaine:  
Where could be found face daintier? then her shape  
From forehead down to foot, perfect-again  
From foot to forehead exquisitely turned:  
"Well-if I bide, lo! this wild flower for me!"_

–_Lord Alfred Tennyson_, "Lancelot and Elaine"

* * *

Molly doesn't take note of the time – it doesn't matter that she's hung over and that she's missing a shoe – she rushes out of the flat as fast as possible after calling a cab.

Molly knows that taking the tube this late is foolhardy and self-deprecating and stupid at best.

Besides, she needs time to think over the blur that has become her memories. The cabbie, thankfully, doesn't give her a second glance as she stumbles into the backseat with a silent sigh. She rests her head against the cool glass – her hair is mostly undone and her dress is rumpled – as she closes her eyes. She is alert when the cab stops – _money is clumsily handed over_ – and when she steps out into the frosty air she is suddenly aware of how late it is.

Her first _walk of shame _is quiet. The air is chilly as she hurries to her flat, fumbling with her keys and wallet.

Her flat is empty – Toby is sleeping on his throne because it is much too late (or too early) for coherent thoughts and actions. The silence soothes her as she throws herself onto her overly plush armchair and draws her knees in close.

She knows that she should probably try to salvage the rest of her sleep but she can't.

Not when memories – quick, brief but so _painful _– are filling her head.

.

.

.

She had talked to Sherlock last night.

But, unfortunately and like most things, their conversation did not go as planned. Not to say that Molly would have actually been capable of planning their conversation – she had been a little too tipsy for that.

He was painfully sober – that much was very obvious, even to her – and a shiver went through her as his eyes raked over her paltry form. If Molly squinted, she could imagine the plethora of thoughts that buzzed around his head.

Perhaps if Molly wasn't so off kilter, she would have noticed certain things about the one and only consulting detective – his body language (normally void of any tells) was conspicuously uncomfortable and definitely _bored, bored and bored. _It was a bit of an anomaly to think that he had actually stayed this long – Greg and the others from Scotland Yard had a running bet that he would skip out _during_ the wedding ceremony (needless to say, Donovan and Anderson would be most _displeased_ with the information) much to John's amusement – but Molly felt that it wasn't all that surprising. Sherlock valued John – _(Molly felt that his length of stay was mostly due to the combined efforts of the newly wedded Mr. _and_ Mrs. Watson)_ – and John valued Sherlock. They were brothers in all sense of the word except blood.

Molly respected that – to be honest, she _envied_ their relationship – and often, she admired their loyalty to each other. Though she had very little memories of Sherlock before John's arrival, what she had heard from others (not Mike, of course) wasn't very pleasant especially if Sally was to be trusted.

.

.

.

"_Sherlock!" Molly smiles and straightens out the hem of her skirt before approaching the consulting detective. She is feeling rather courageous – probably because of the alcohol – and invincible (again, the alcohol) making her want to do things._

_In particular, she wants to have a decent conversation with Sherlock Holmes._

_Just one, measly conversation. Molly feels that it was a harmless request, really – especially after everything that she has been through. It isn't ambitious, courageous or outrageous. Molly doesn't wish for the stars or the moon – no, she'll take what she can get and nothing more. Molly Hooper is unambitious and unassuming, even when inebriated._

_His glance, as foreboding and galvanizing as ever, sweeps over his form and his lip quirks. Or, at least, Molly thinks it does. It was hard to be sure in this lighting._

_Molly silently prays in thanks, because of the alcohol she isn't being swept with memories from that dreaded Christmas. She smiles – it's a small, hopeful smile that she doesn't wear very often – and nods to herself. She _can_ do this. She _can_ have a simple conversation with the man of her dreams because _she_ is a grown, independent woman that _doesn't_ have silly, school-girl crushes._

_She's about to open her mouth and say something thoughtful and that isn't along the lines of "Sherlock, I've loved since the moment I saw you whipping that corpse with a riding crop"._

"_Molly!"_

_The voice makes her pause – _(oh, how she regrets that pause now) – _and she turns to the voice. It's Kyle, the urologist, wearing a suit that's a bit too stiff. Molly opens her mouth and it seems as though her confusion has limited her ability to communicate._

"_Kyle?" She asks, dumbfounded. _

"_Sorry I'm late Molls, I tried calling but – _oh_, hello." He rushes over his words as he makes his way towards her and his expression changes as he sees her close proximity to Sherlock. Kyle drapes his arm around his shoulder as he regards Sherlock._

_Molly, despite her new-found courageous via the wine, isn't stupid. She knows that if she didn't move Kyle away from Sherlock there would be dangerous consequences. Sherlock had the unpleasant quirk of deducing people to shreds when irritable and Molly had seen the brunt of his boredom in the lab as of late._

_Sherlock's boredom was... an acquired taste. She had heard stories from Mrs. Hudson that he had the habit of shooting the walls of the flat whenever he felt idle. _

_She tugs on Kyle's arm, hoping to draw his attention elsewhere. Unfortunately, as always, she is ignored._

"_I think we got off the wrong foot earlier. How's about you and me start off fresh, yeah? I'll get us some champagne." Kyle says, foolishly believing that he's being the "bigger" man when Molly can see the way Sherlock regards him is the way one would regard an ant. Molly mentally groans in frustration – _stupid_ Sherlock and his _insufferable_ power trips – and prepares herself for the incoming verbal onslaught._

_Sherlock looks him up and down, "And who are you, again?"_

_Molly cringes, knowing that it would only get worse._

_Kyle clenches his jaw and Molly idly watches his muscles grow taut before loosening. "Excuse me, but –"_

"_Perhaps that's why you were rejected for your promotion. You don't seem to leave a very lasting impression."_

_Kyle's jaw drops, "What –"_

"_It's obvious really. You were supposed to get the promotion that you've always had your eye on but then they passed you up, didn't you? They chose someone _better_. Just like your ex-wife, I suppose – there is evidence of a wedding ring on your finger, the indentation means that you were up until very recently already spoken for. Obviously, it was a particularly nasty separation since you had to move hospitals. You were crushed because you had given up your marriage for your career only to find that you weren't as 'good' as you claimed. That's why you've spent the last three hours at a pub getting plastered before remembering that you had a so-called 'date' with Dr. Hooper – the stench of alcohol is evident as are the crumbs on your shoes (pub food). You didn't call earlier not because you were unable but simply because you forgot. After all, alcohol does wonders to the memory." Sherlock's lip quirks in victory._

_There is a horrific pause – an absolutely horrific pause – and Molly, for a moment, believes that Kyle is going to punch Sherlock in the face. Fortunately, Kyle simply storms away._

_Molly watches Kyle walk away before turning to Sherlock with a grim expression._

"_Why?" Is the only thing she says. Sherlock merely blinks at her expression. "Why?! Why did you have to go and ruin it!" Her questions are becoming shrieks and, suddenly, the dam that had jammed her vocal cords before is gone._

"_Every time. Every damn time, Sherlock! It's never enough to let little Molly Hooper just be happy."_

"_M –"_

"_But, no! You're too much of an ogre to even appreciate the fact that John's getting married to the love of his life. So why can't you just let me try to be happy? I waited for you for God knows how long – patiently, ever so patiently – and for what? Nothing. I realize now that you're either too emotionally stunted to properly reject me or that you've just using me as a means to an end. Kyle might not have been perfect but he never pretended to be."_

"_Mo–"_

_She interrupts again, desperately needing to be heard. "Do you know how difficult it is, Sherlock? How difficult it is to love someone that will never love you back, no matter how much you want him to? How difficult it is because of much you want to hate the insufferable git but you can't because you _love_ him?"_

_She wants to say more – oh, how she wants to shriek at him until her voice is turned hoarse – but stops herself because she realizes that it isn't worth her time yelling at a man who would never understand her pain._

_She chooses to leave while her anger is still coursing through her veins. _

.

.

.

The spends the rest of her day lying on the couch and watching Glee. Toby snuggled close to his mistress as though he could sense her distress and Molly quietly scratches his ears, listening to his purring. Thankfully, there were no calls to the hospital – no calls from Mary, either – and Molly was free to lounge around her flat like a spineless slug.

.

.

.

Molly was thankful for the abundance of paperwork that awaited her when she arrived for work then next morning. Her mind switched to auto-pilot as she filled out the menial forms and refused to look at the clock.

"Molly!" She forces herself to smile and look up because that's the type of person she is; Molly is the one to hide her sadness behind smiles. She wants to scowl because she had been so close to finishing the day quietly.

It's Kyle – _bloody hell_ – and Molly wants to crawl under a rock and never come out again.

He's smiling and pecks her on the cheek as Molly does nothing but stare at him, "You left your shoe at my flat!"

"Oh," she pauses, struggling to talk "did I now?"

"Yeah, I'm surprised that you hadn't noticed sooner. I tried calling yesterday but I kept getting the voice-mail instead." Kyle's a bit touchy-feely – not in a bad way that it makes her uncomfortable but it just makes her feel guilty – guilty in a way that makes her feel as though she's leading him on with insincere intentions.

She was so busy in her thoughts that she misses him say, "Have you eaten yet? I found a little cafe not far from here – thought you might like it."

He frowns when he notices her lack of response, making him pause. He gently places his hands on her shoulders so that they're looking eye to eye and Molly can't help but feel that this is all wrong – _there are brown eyes staring back at her instead of wonderful ocean-blue ones_ – and the guilt begins to compound in her throat.

"Look, Molly, about what that bloke said at the reception. He wasn't far off but he got one thing terribly wrong. I was at the pub, but I wasn't drinking. I have a mate who's a recovering alcoholic and he relapsed. I couldn't just leave him there so I stayed with him –"

"It's fine. I understand." The words rush out before Molly could stop them. She understands because she can remember too well the way her father was addicted to cigarettes – _cancer sticks_, Molly bitterly calls them – and how, in the end, they were his downfall.

_Peculiar thing really – how everyone has a habit of loving something that eventually kills them._

_Peculiar, indeed._


	6. Chapter 6

**SUMMARY: **He wasn't the benevolently chivalrous knight in shining armor. She wasn't the fair maiden who fainted at the sight of blood. – Molly learns that the bedtime stories of yore aren't meant for thirty-something pathologists. Sherlolly. Part VI – Princesses don't fall in love with urologists.

**AUTHOR'S NOTES: **A quick question – how many of you are expecting a sad or a happy ending? Just a _bit_ curious. Oh, and thanks for the 100+ follows, y'all are lovely. Any and all thoughts will be appreciated! Especially since this chapter was akin to squeezing a rock for diamonds.

* * *

**CAMELOT**

_Elaine, the lily maid of Astolat,  
High in her chamber up a tower to the east  
Guarded the sacred shield of Lancelot;  
Which first she placed where morning's earliest ray  
Might strike it, and awake her with the gleam…_

–_Lord Alfred Tennyson,_ "Lancelot and Elaine"

* * *

Kyle wishes her a good morning via text – every morning. And his words are the last Molly sees as she sets her mobile to charge before bed (she should find it romantic – Molly realizes after further inspection).

He brings her sweets – usually scones or biscuits.

He brings her crisps (because sometimes Molly's too busy to remember to eat).

He compliments her hair (even when she's hardly had any sleep and simply threw it into a bun).

He listens to her complain about her job (despite the fact that she works with corpses).

He is sweet. He is kind (he's been wonderfully patient about everything).

He is Kyle – in all sense of the word.

But Molly doesn't want Kyle.

She doesn't want brown eyes, sweet compliments, or an attentive boyfriend. Because that's too easy. It's too easy after three years of painful pining. It's too easy after four years of waiting and patience. She's been pining for too long damn it and she just wants her efforts to be acknowledged – _is that too much to ask?_

It's too easy to throw all that effort away as though it was worthless – then again, perhaps it _was_ worthless – but Molly does not want to admit to that.

Molly nearly wants to slap herself most days – she wonders why she just can't be happy and _settle _– because she knows that despite her efforts (and Kyle's) she will never truly love Kyle. Sure, she'll like him. Sure, she'll (eventually) care for him and may even grow fond of him. Sure, she enjoys being able to flaunt her relationship to that twat of a receptionist.

But Molly Hooper doesn't want to settle – she wants _love_.

The two things that will never be the same.

And it's driving her mad – _mad, mad, mad_ – as she gazes into Kyle's eyes and lies to his face. Lies that _yes, she'll love to go out again_ and _yes, she finds his new patient to be a bit of a moron_. Because the truth, the reality, and the realness of it will break him – even though the lies, the fiction, the fakeness of it all is slowly breaking her.

.

.

.

She tries to find fault in Kyle and she does with much success.

He tends to stumble over his words. He doesn't like watching Glee (but, he _loves_ Doctor Who). His hair is thinning. His eyes are brown. He is ordinary.

He is ordinary – in all sense of the word.

But ordinary isn't bad, is it?

Ordinary is stable. Ordinary is real.

But, ordinary is _boring_.

.

.

.

The reception dinner fiasco is deleted – or so Molly suspects when Sherlock strolls into the morgue the same as ever just days after the event. He doesn't spare her a second glance as he settles into his _preferred_ microscope and begins looking at samples (of what, Molly is not sure). Molly – never one to enjoy awkward silences – retreats to the comfort and privacy of her office and stares at pictures of Toby for nearly twenty minutes before summoning up the courage to return to work because _she'd be damned if she couldn't be as professional as he could_.

They work side by side, silently and diligently. And Molly – through the distraction of menial paperwork – forgets for a brief moment. It's blissful really – when Molly can think of things other than Sherlock, Sherlock and that blasted reception. She lets her mind drift to autopilot as she stacks the paper folders after she fusses with her pen.

"Domesticity suits you quite well, Molly." His voice is a scalpel as it cuts to the bone. She waits, knowing that he wouldn't possibly stop there.

Feeling oddly defiant, Molly cuts back, "You're right, Sherlock. 'Course, you're _always_ right." She shuts the paper folder much harder than truly necessary.

"Hand me the samples." He says simply – blatantly ignoring her.

"Which ones?" Molly tries to stay calm, because Molly Hooper is always calm (just like Sherlock is _always_ right).

"In front of me."

It takes everything in Molly's will power not to drop the paper folder that she's holding. Ordinarily, she wouldn't really mind – Sherlock is Sherlock, after all (the man is lazier than any other person Molly knew) and besides, Molly _loved_ doing things for him.

_Loved._

But not today – not today when she's all wound up because of him and Kyle and everything else that's wrong with her bloody life.

"No." She says because that's all she's capable of doing at the moment – she is stiff (showing defiance towards _him_ has always been a little tricky for her) but firm.

"Molly. The samples." He says again, not acknowledging her refusal.

"I'm not getting the samples for you Sherlock. They're right in front of you for crying out loud."

He finally decides to grace her with his full gaze as he turns to look at her in question. There is a slight frown (slight scowl) to his lips before he starts, "Molly, your – "

But not today.

She leaves the room not wanting to listen to more fake compliments, not wanting to see more fake smiles and not wanting to see herself bend towards his will simply under the pretense of a bloody crush.

_(She didn't want to admit to herself that if she heard the words from his mouth that she wouldn't be able to help herself. In a blink of an eye Molly Hooper the pathologist would turn into a mushy schoolgirl. And she couldn't have that. Not today.)_

.

.

.

"Molly?" Kyle sounds baffled when she calls him during her coffee break (it's so much as he doesn't like it – _he assures her_ – but it's surprising because it's usually _him_ calling her and never vice versa).

"There's a zombie movie playing this weekend – it'll likely be horrid and extremely inaccurate but I was wondering if you were free on Saturday afternoon."

"Of course!" The glee from his voice comes off in waves.

"Great." Molly blinks, the mobile's weight suddenly very apparent in her hands.

"It's a date." Kyle declares.

And everything's ordinary.

.

.

.

"Hi Molly." It's John – _of course, it's always John_ – greeting her in the hallway after she topped off her favorite kitty mug.

"Oh, hello John. How was the honeymoon?" Molly's pleasant because when is Molly Hooper not pleasant?

"Nice, actually. Had to throw my mobile in the bin since the bloody git wouldn't stop texting me but other than that, it was great."

Molly nods understandably – _she had actually heard Mary's gushing review about the honeymoon earlier but was trying to be polite_ – as he opens the door for her.

"So, how's everything with . . .?" John's voice trails off as he stumbles over the name.

"Kyle. And it's been great actually." Molly fills in the blanks.

They walk in slightly awkward silence before John decides to prod the elephant in the room with a stick, "How are things between you and Sherlock?"

Molly pauses, unsure as to what to say as she throws him a confused look.

"Molly, you've got to remember that it was _my_ wedding reception." There is a bit of humor mixed in with the overall seriousness in his statement. The concerned look in John's eyes makes Molly want to crumble and she _nearly_ does.

"The same, I suppose. He's probably deleted the damn thing from his head." Molly admits, slightly clenching the mug.

"Felt good, didn't it?" John asks as he looks at her.

Molly laughs – feeling the previous tension dissipate slowly. John knows what he's like better than anyone – even her. John chuckles along with her.

"It was like everything that I've been holding onto for nearly four years just erupted. It was . . . exhilarating, I suppose. I think it was good for me to let it all out. I needed it because it helped me realize something."

"Oh?"

"I've realized that I've got to get on with my life and that it doesn't just revolve around him."

John stays silent.

.

.

.

The ache she gets from her unrequited crush is still there (very much so) but she won't let it get to her. She, in all senses, should be happy. She has a great job, a wonderful and doting boyfriend as well as her health and . . .

For once, Molly actually feels as though she could do this. She can get over Sherlock Homes and she will because her life doesn't revolve around him.

Her life is hers alone.

And she's perfectly happy with that.

But, of course, just when she thinks she's got her life all sorted out – _he_ comes and mucks things up (literally and figuratively).

.

.

.

"Molly."

It's been a few days since her refusal and display of defiance. Molly attempts to look indifferent as she glances in his general direction.

"What is it, Sherlock?"

"There is something that I require of you."

Molly's eyebrows furrow, "And what would that be exactly?"

"I will pick up you at your apartment at six. Dress casually – and for god's sake don't wear that insufferable cherry jumper." He leaves as he continues to tap on his mobile, his coat billowing behind him as though he's a runway model.

Suddenly Molly feels an involuntary rush through her veins. It makes her angry – _oh, so angry_ – but at the same time she feels giddy, delighted and curious.

Often times, Sherlock usually just required body parts – but he had never really invited himself to her apartment before.

Suddenly she groans, realizing that it's happened again.

He's managed to give her emotional whiplash and has forced her into doing something for him (_again_) and that she's not living life by her own terms like she said she was going to and . . .

She would continue her spiteful tirade but Sherlock's got her curiosity all worked up in a wonderful little package.

Nothing about Sherlock is ordinary.

Nothing about Sherlock is boring.

And she _loves_ him for that.


	7. Chapter 7

**SUMMARY: **He wasn't the benevolently chivalrous knight in shining armor. She wasn't the fair maiden who fainted at the sight of blood. – Molly learns that the bedtime stories of yore aren't meant for thirty-something pathologists. Sherlolly. Part VII – First dates don't involve running from mad men.

**AUTHOR'S NOTES: **My sincerest apologies. I appreciate all of your kind words and encouragements.

* * *

**CAMELOT**

_How came the lily maid by that good shield  
Of Lancelot, she that knew not even his name?  
He left it with her, when he rode to tilt  
For the great diamond in the diamond jousts,  
Which Arthur had ordained, and by that name  
Had named them, since a diamond was the prize._

–_Lord Alfred Tennyson,_ "Lancelot and Elaine"

* * *

She doesn't remember the last time she's felt this frantic about a – _not a date, of course it wasn't a date_ – meeting with a man. She clumsily rummages through her wardrobe, her room soon looking as though it had been ransacked by robbers. Various clothing that she had collected over the years soon began to pile up beside her bed. Molly was horrible about throwing things out – things often held sentiment (too much sentiment) and she couldn't bear parting with them.

It was probably the reason why she still had a jumper from her days in uni. It was probably the reason why she still had the dress that she had worn at her father's funeral tucked away in the darkest corner, hanging quietly and modestly. Suddenly, her anxious demeanor turns somber.

She snaps herself to attention – if this wasn't a date, then it wouldn't do to fuss about her clothing. After all, Sherlock had said casual (though, she suspected, the man probably had never worn anything casual in the entirety of his existence) and Molly could do casual.

When she finally emerges from her room – with all of her clothing shoved elegantly into a corner – she is wearing jeans (not ripped), a plainly colored long-sleeved shirt and a smart pair of trainers since she didn't have the faintest clue what Sherlock required from her.

If John's blog was anything to go by – there was a high probability that she was going to be running for her dear life and wearing heels would simply scream idiocy.

She glances at a small mirror – _mouth too small, cheeks too flushed, eyes too bright_ – she contemplates leaving her hair down and free before tugging her brown locks into a severe ponytail. She wanted to be prepared for whatever lunacy he had planned – or at least, fool herself into thinking that she was prepared.

Because no one can really prepare for a person like Sherlock.

.

.

.

It is exactly six – right down to dot – when the door to her flat opens. Molly supposes that she should be upset since _normal_ people ring doorbells or at least have the good sense to knock first before bursting in as though they were on the set of a melodrama.

But, she doesn't get angry. She merely blinks at him, freezing slightly when he looks over her form before looking back at his phone. Molly releases the breath that she didn't know she was holding – _slightly relieved that her appearance was nothing to comment on but also the slightest bit offended_ – and fumbles for her mobile and keys.

It's only when they're in the lift together that she summons up the courage to ask.

"Where are we going?"

He doesn't look up from his phone, "We are going shopping for rings."

Her heart freezes and Molly finds it awfully difficult to breathe.

"Oh."

.

.

.

Apparently, Sherlock wanted to investigate a small pawn shop that was quite far away from her flat. The owner was under suspect and Sherlock needed a way to sneak in and deduce without being too obvious. He had wanted to bring John under the guise of being life-partners but John hadn't approved.

Molly didn't have to wonder why.

In the stifling ride to the shop, Sherlock quietly and quickly informed her of her new identity.

She is Sarah Clark, a newlywed – _eloped, since her father hadn't approved_ – and scraping the barrel for funds since she was disowned. Her wonderful new husband, Milton Clark, was an aspiring writer and was desperately trying to get his book published. They are looking for rings – nothing too gaudy or pretentious, but something full of sentiment – to help establish their new life.

Molly thinks that the guise is a bit too well developed for a mediocre pawn shop in a seedy area. She doesn't argue or do much of anything really, since she's still trying to wrap her head around this whole situation.

But she's very much aware of how Sherlock's hand curls around the small of her back, the chill from his hand seeping through her jumper. Molly winces at the increased rate of her heart and the sheer noise that her pulse begins to make, desperately wishing to every deity that Sherlock wouldn't notice – that he would be too occupied with other things to give her a moment's glance!

She glances, ever so slightly, towards him and her stomach plummets when she notices the small smirk that plays on his lips.

Oh, he _definitely_ noticed.

But Molly isn't allowed much time to recover since Sherlock practically shoves her through the door of the pawn shop, removing his hand from her back – only to intertwine his long fingers through her shorter, stubbier ones.

Molly's brain short-circuited.

.

.

.

The man at the counter is gruff and short-statured. He has a mean look in his eyes, and a frown that is curbed only by the cigarette that hangs in his mouth. Molly blinks as Sherlock dives into character – making quite the convincing newlywed as he peruses the scant amount of jewelry, tugging her hand as he contemplates over the possible choices.

"Darling, what do you think about this one?" Sherlock asks as Molly hums, not even glancing at the said ring as she glances around the shop in curiosity.

She couldn't see anything that Sherlock could possibly suspect; the shop looks the same as any other in Molly's humble opinion. The merchandise is the usual sort one would find at these kinds of places.

Her eye catches on a ring set on one of the back shelves, it is hidden slightly but its glow is revealed even by the dirty, dangling light bulb.

"How about that one?" Molly points with her free hand.

Perhaps it is only Molly's imagination but the clerk noticeably pales.

"Ah yes, could you please show it to us," There's something about Sherlock's voice that gives her the chills – and not in the usual sense either. His false personality is gone as his real persona shines through for a brief, dangerous moment.

"If it's not too much trouble!" Molly half-squeaks.

The man makes a fuss about the ring set giving copious excuses but Sherlock is steadfast in his determination. Eventually, the short man retrieves a stool from the backroom and carefully takes the set from its perch.

It's beautiful enough to take Molly's breath away. Later, she would find it terribly odd that such a set was available in such a dingy place but, for the moment, she revels in its beauty.

She wonders if that's what platinum looks like – she's never seen _real_ platinum, only in pictures. The ring itself is awfully simple – _nothing like Mary's almost gaudy one_ – adorned with a central sapphire that reminds her of Sherlock's eyes bordered by twin diamonds.

It isn't a traditional wedding ring.

But it is _perfect_ in every sense of the word.

"It's not for sale." The man barks in heavily accented English before shoving the boxed set out of sight.

"Why not?" It takes a few moments for Molly to realize that it's _her_ voice asking the question.

"I've already got a few buyers interested." He quickly replies.

"Then what was the point of showing us?" Molly nears shrieks in indignation, unsure why she's feeling so strongly about that particular set of jewelry.

The man holds his tongue but his glare speaks volumes.

"Do you mind if I use the loo perchance?" Sherlock suddenly speaks breaking the strained silence.

"It's in the back." The man gestures as Molly prays silently that Sherlock isn't _really_ going to leave her alone with man.

She finds herself frowning at his retreating back.

_Bloody idiot, _she scowls.

Molly awkwardly looks down at her mobile, trying to avoid the man's gaze as she waits until Sherlock re-emerges.

Suddenly a loud, horrifying crash emanates through the shop – and its source is the backroom. The man throws an accosting glance at Molly before hurrying towards the back. Molly's blood freezes cold as she trembles in horrid silence, fearing the worst.

"Molly!" The harsh whisper is the only warning Molly receives before she's dragged out of the shop nearly running to keep up with Sherlock's long strides.

"What did you do?" Molly pauses after every word, trying to glance over her shoulder to see if the shopkeeper is after them.

"I've found out how he does it, Molly! It's horridly dull, and it's a bit insulting that it's taken me this long to figure out how and why he drowns his victims before butchering them but now it makes sense! He –" He lets out a glorious laugh as he drags her down the block.

"You mean, the shopkeeper, he . . . ?" Molly suddenly finds it hard to stand.

"It's the son! His son works down at the dock, that's where they take them."

"So, where are we going now?" Molly asks timidly, desperately hoping that it wasn't –

Sherlock rolls his eyes, "The docks, Molly. Do keep up."

Molly lets out a terrified squeak.

.

.

.

It's nearly midnight when Sherlock drops her exhausted body off at her flat. Her entire body is fatigued from running and Sherlock's exited state is starting to grate on her sleep nerves. Though she enjoyed watching him work, she prefers it back at St. Bart's where there is a much less of a chance that she'd be chased by a serial criminal. That and she is still ticked that Sherlock had the audacity to leave her alone with a dangerous criminal _without_ bothering to tell her.

Toby quietly acknowledges her as she dumps her body unceremoniously onto her narrow bed.

For once, she sleeps dreamlessly and fitfully.

.

.

.

Molly stifles a yawn the next day at work, her tired eyes barely registering the corpse in front of her as she sips from her kitty mug. But, despite her ruined sleeping schedule, she feels as though she is floating on cloud nine. Molly is not quite the adventurous type but last night has brought her such a feeling of satisfaction. It was quite different solving mysteries on the _front_ lines – so to speak. Not to say that she doesn't enjoy her job because pathology is her one, true passion.

But she is starting to understand why John preferred working with Sherlock over the hospital. There is nothing in the world that beat a pure, unadulterated adrenaline rush.

Well, almost nothing.

The doors swing open and in saunters the infamous Consulting Detective and his trusty blogger.

"Molly, the Morrison body." Sherlock commands. Any other day, Molly would happily oblige but yesterday's night of adrenaline rush has gifted Molly with a certain sense of courage.

If she could stand being the same room with a serial killer, she could just as well bully Sherlock Holmes into being not a total twat.

Molly stays rooted at her spot, "I didn't hear a please, Sherlock."

John watches on amused as Sherlock sports a cross between a frown, scowl and pout.

"Molly, your hair looks beautiful today." He comments rather quickly.

"Thank you but we both know that isn't true." She counters rather softly but steadily.

"The Morrison body," Sherlock scowls, "_please_."

Molly smiles, "Of course."

It was a small victory – but any victory from a Holmes is one to be celebrated.

Maybe she doesn't have a chance in high hell with Sherlock.

But that won't stop her from being a damn good friend.


	8. Chapter 8

**SUMMARY: **He wasn't the benevolently chivalrous knight in shining armor. She wasn't the fair maiden who fainted at the sight of blood. – Molly learns that the bedtime stories of yore aren't meant for thirty-something pathologists. Sherlolly. Part VIII – Hospitals aren't the most romantic places in the world.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**: Well, school's out for the most part. This is no guarantee that I'll be able to write more, but I'll try my best. Special thanks to **broomclosetkink**, who was the 100th reviewer. Follow her on tumblr; she's absolutely lovely. Brevity is my greatest skill, but sorry if this is too short!

* * *

**CAMELOT**  
_He spoke and ceased: the lily maid Elaine,  
Won by the mellow voice before she looked,  
Lifted her eyes, and read his lineaments._  
_The great and guilty love he bare the Queen,  
In battle with the love he bare his lord,  
Had marred his face, and marked it ere his time.  
_–_Lord Alfred Tennyson,_ "Lancelot and Elaine"

* * *

She doesn't visit him very often – in fact, the last time that she went was around Christmas (before the _incident_, of course). But it's become a habit of hers, especially around the holidays when Toby's company isn't nearly as satisfying as it usually is. Maybe it's a bit morbid – she doesn't know very many people that find the cure to loneliness in a cemetery of all places. Then again, Molly's been surrounded by the dead all of her life – and she's a pathologist by _choice_.

But when she finds it hard to breathe and when reciting poems only make her dizzier and dizzier. She escapes (or at least, attempts to) the London smog to visit the cemetery that houses both of her parents. Her mother's tombstone is older, more weathered and bit more somber. Her father's is more nostalgic but more painful.

She never knew her mother, after all.

Sometimes – she imagines something. It's not tangible and not real in any case, but she imagines what her mother must have been like. Once upon a time, she would have described it as a warm, mother-y feeling that spread throughout her limbs.

But it's been an awful long time since anyone's read Molly a bedtime story.

All she has now is a grave, a name, and a date.

But she supposes that she's content with that.

.

.

.

It's been months since her _adventure _with Sherlock; the case has long been closed and her "friendship" with him is tentative at best and strained at the worst. But it's working, _maybe_. More evidence is needed before she can come to a true conclusion. He's gotten better at saying _please_ but not really meaning it. But John swears that Sherlock only states that magic word whenever she's concerned. She thinks that it's John's attempt at reassuring her that Sherlock does, in fact, value her.

Her relationship with Kyle has been ongoing – mostly because she can't find the heart to break it off when he's so sincere. She doesn't really feel like she's stringing him along because she does enjoy his company just not as much as she probably should. But she likes the attention – _does that make her selfish?_ – and Molly's been ignored much too often to look a gift horse in the mouth (at least, not too closely). Kyle's fairly harmless seeing as he's not a wanted criminal, nor is he currently married nor does he need her kidneys to make a profit on the black market.

She's not sad but she's not exactly happy either.

But she supposes that she's content with that.

.

.

.

"Molls!" Kyle's taken the nickname quite well – unfortunately, Molly hasn't. It reminds her too much of her so-called _friends_ in grade school, the ones that would use her to finish their schoolwork before ignoring her.

"Kyle." Molly puts on a smile, because she does _like_ Kyle. Just not the way that he probably wants her to. He doesn't usually like visiting her in the morgue like this – he's not accustomed to the smell and Molly doesn't really blame him (most people aren't, after all). They usually meet each other in the break room upstairs in between shifts for a bit of cheap coffee and conversation.

"There's something that I wanted to –" He's interrupted by the opening of the doors and three men venture in: Lestrade, John and, of course, Sherlock. Kyle's face crumples visibly.

"Ah, Molly. How are you? We're here to see –" Lestrade begins.

"The Osborn body. Do hurry." Sherlock quips, impatiently tapping at his phone.

Molly stifles a sigh, "Sorry, Kyle. Maybe another time?" She offers him an apologetic smile as she starts to carry out her duties.

She doesn't expect Kyle to gently stop her by grasping her elbow. "It's a bit important, Molls. Meet me in the break room the soonest you can, okay?"

She nods dumbly as Kyle takes his leave.

_What could that be about?_

.

.

.

Lestrade leaves soon after – something about a development – Sherlock doesn't look up from his microscope. John flitters between Molly and Sherlock, mostly turning to Molly when Sherlock's attitude becomes too much to bear.

When it's rather obvious that they don't need her help (or at least, gauging by Sherlock's ever present frown) she starts to take her leave, slowly removing her latex gloves.

"Molly. The samples."

"John can get them for you. Does anyone want some coffee?" She calls over her shoulder, not really caring if he responds.

"John's gone god-knows-where. Molly, I need the samples." Sherlock scowls, his eyes never straying from the microscope.

"Well, then get up and get them yourself."

He grunts something intelligible and Molly rolls her eyes. "I'll do it later Sherlock. I'm taking a short break, John'll be back soon.

He says something else but Molly doesn't hear him as she shuts the doors behind her and heads up to meet Kyle.

.

.

.

Maybe in hindsight, she should have seen this coming. Often times, the things that happen to most people have a tendency of backfiring on her in the strangest of ways.

Yes.

Hindsight was a bitch.

.

.

.

She enters the break room, seemingly untouched throughout all her time at St. Bart's. The coffee machine still faithfully pumps out gallons of the stuff each day – always working, and never failing – and the room is littered with old chairs and plush sofas. It's widely used as a place to catch up on sleep when days (or nights) are suddenly swamped with patients. She's never really had to use them all that much now but the memory of her younger days brings a smile to her lips.

"Molls!" She's broken from her momentary nostalgia as she gazes at her current boyfriend.

He hands her a cup of coffee which she takes graciously, and they settle down into a couple of chairs in the corner of the room – the soft hum of the coffee machine keeping them company.

"Do you remember the first time we met?" He asks after leisurely sipping his coffee. Or, at least, he's attempting to seem leisurely – Molly can spot the tell-tale signs of anxiety a kilometer away even if she lacked Sherlock's keen eye for details.

Molly's brow furrows.

He continues, "It was in this very room. I can remember the first I saw you – I was new, nervous especially when I saw you. I was so nervous that I even spilled coffee on you."

She remembers now – vaguely – soft stuttering and an awkward (but not so awkward) conversation between two relative strangers. A soft smile graces her lips.

"I think what I'm trying to say, Molly, is that my life has really changed since I've met you. You've become really important to me."

He fumbles with something in his coat – Molly's not sure what it is, perhaps a cell phone or a pager or a . . .

A ring box.

"Molly Hooper, will you marry me?"

.

.

.

She's not sure what she's doing at the cemetery – it was as though she just felt like it was right to come here before her shift started. She didn't bring any flowers with her this time – _would her mother have liked flowers?_ – and she just stands before the pair of tombstones that denote the location of her two parents.

On an impulse, she brushes her fingertips against the stone, slowly tracking the engraving and wishing that she could tell them things – all the things that have happened since they've left. Since they've left her alone here.

She doesn't resent them for it – or she tries not to. She likes to think that they've left because they had no choice, that if they were given the chance they would still be here with her. And she thinks that she can understand that.

She can be content with that.

.

.

.

She finds herself wondering what Sherlock would do in her situation – it's all a bit silly really. But then again, she supposes, if anyone can reject a marriage proposal in a posh sort of way – it would definitely be him.

How does one go about rejecting a marriage proposal anyways?

Especially when the man is quite literally _kneeling_ before you with a diamond in his hand a chance to escape her sentence of being a lonely spinster with cats?

She couldn't just tell him to bugger off, now could she?

.

.

.

Yes, what would Sherlock do?


End file.
